


Red Mountain

by JRCash, ravenj84



Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018)
Genre: 1970s, Autopsies, Catholic Guilt, Catholic Imagery, Colorado Rockies, Dark, Death, Detectives, Drinking, Drug Use, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flashbacks, Guns, It's Flip Zimmerman so lets be real...you know what that means ;), KKK, Kidnapping, Masturbation, Medical Examination, Medical Examiner, Medical Jargon, No I'm not a doctor but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Police Procedural, Roman Catholicism, Science-y, Serial Killers, Single Parents, Slow Burn, Smoking, plaid upon plaid upon plaid, sleuthing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2019-11-16 11:36:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18093548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JRCash/pseuds/JRCash, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenj84/pseuds/ravenj84
Summary: A series of brutal murders has cast a dark shadow over Colorado Springs. Flip Zimmerman and Sam Fisher, the new medical examiner, now must race against the clock to discover who's behind the gruesome carnage without falling victim to the killer and their deranged beliefs of absolution.





	1. Chapter 1

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/160140480@N02/40398926003/in/dateposted-public/)

_February 1979_

The scent of fresh pine swirled with dank earth was harsh against Julie’s nose and the taste of iron that coated her tongue made her stomach roil. Trying to sit up in an attempt to determine her surroundings, the bite of metal abraded against the clammy skin of her wrists and ankles, forcing her back down. Wherever she was, it was frigid, pitch-black, and left her with no means of escape.

“Aren't you just the prettiest thing?” came a jagged rasp.

“Where am I? Who are you?” Julie stammered, eyes darting all around in panic.

“I am your absolution,” the voice answered.

“ _Please._ Please don't hurt me,” she begged, hot tears carving out trails along her sullied face.

“Oh, I'm not gonna hurt you, Julie. I’m going to _cleanse_ you.”   


***

Flip Zimmerman could barely concentrate as Doctor Sam Fisher, the new medical examiner fresh in from Denver, rattled off information about the latest victim. Another one found last night, similar manner as the two before. He knew damn well he should be taking notes, but those legs. _Focus!_ Flip internally screamed at himself as Sam turned, gesturing to the murder board. _God her ass in that skirt_. His pen scratched against the paper, hand smudging the ink.

“Fuck!”

"Did you have something you'd like to share with the class, Detective?" Sam inquired, sitting down on the edge of a desk, extending her long lean legs, crossing them at the ankle.

Flip stared at the floor in attempt to not let his eyes rove upward.

"No," he bit.

“No, what?” Sam urged.

"No _ma'am,_ " Flip managed to grunt from between gritted teeth.

As Sam continued going over her findings, she found herself occasionally glancing back over at the hulking detective decked in plaid. Flip looked behind him, eyes slitted, as another round of snickering hit his ears. If only he knew how large the “will they/won’t they" betting pool was getting around the station.

Sam zeroed in on the incessant whispering and chuckling behind her, annoyance flooding through her in a rush. Picking up the file folder full of autopsy photos, that would make anyone's stomach lurch, she surreptitiously dropped them in front of Flip with a loud _thwack_ causing him to jolt forward in his seat.

"Clearly I'm boring you, Detective. Please feel free to take a look at these and enlighten me _if_ you manage to find something that can hold your attention," Sam snarked.

Confidently the seasoned detective flipped open the folder, giving Sam a smug look. He wasn’t about to let her get to him, besides, there wasn’t much he hadn’t seen at this point in his career. Looking down, he instantly choked down the bile that had risen to the back of his throat. Whoever was behind these killings was a _monster_. He’d never seen something so brutal. This was pure hate. Snapping the folder shut, Flip tossed it back on the desk. He’d seen enough. Looking back up, his eyes met Sam's staring back at him in challenge.

"What'd you think I had in there? Glamour shots? Perhaps now you recognize the severity of what we're dealing with here, Zimmerman, before you decided to nod off,” Sam warned, leaning closer to Flip’s large form, her blouse gaping just enough to give him a glimpse of what lie beneath.

The other officers tittered at yet another of Sam's reprimands. Flip could feel the tips of his ears heating in anger, undoubtedly turning a bright shade of red, but thankfully hidden under his inky black hair.

“Maybe if you presented your facts clearer without so many _distractions_ and all that medical jargon of yours, you’d keep your audience’s attention,” Flip suggested, his neck hot with embarrassment.

“Alright, alright.” Chief Bridges cut in before Flip could goad her any further. “There’s been another one found. Going to have to cut your presentation short, Fisher. Zimmerman, you know the area, I want you out there as well.”

Sam snapped upright immediately as she turned to face the Chief, positively affirming his order, and giving herself a wide berth from Flip. She was letting him get to her and that was _not_ part of the plan when she took the job.

Flip’s chair scraped against the linoleum floor as he pushed it back from the table to stand, taking a step back. _Was he starting to get to her?_ He held a strange sense of pride at the idea that he had started to chip away at Fisher’s tough facade.

Sam couldn't help the smirk that slid across her face when she glanced back over at Flip. She recognized the look he was shooting her way; it was the look every man she'd ever worked with gave her. Thinking they somehow had gotten the upper hand and that she was nothing more than a pretty face with a nice pair of tits.

“I’ll drive,” Flip offered, his keys already in hand as they crossed the station parking lot towards his truck.   

Sam looked at the beaten up Chevy truck with concern. Either Colorado Springs didn’t pay their detectives nearly enough or Flip really had no taste. Opening the passenger side door, the hinges protested loudly with rust and age. Crossing her arms, Sam shot Flip a look of annoyance. Her Bronco was more than capable, but apparently Mr. Chivalrous here had other ideas.

“You really expect me to get into that thing?” Sam barked.

“Apologies for it not being the royal carriage you’re accustomed to, m’lady.” Flip patted the seat. “Come on, bodies don’t get any fresher if you leave ‘em sittin’ there waiting.”  

 _Touche, Zimmerman._ There was work to be done and their incessant bickering would only hold them up further. Grabbing a hold of the doorframe, Sam hoisted herself up into the truck in a less than graceful movement. Pencil skirts weren’t exactly designed for mobility, her outfit choice this morning dictated by the fact she needed to look professional for a presentation, not expecting to be out on a crime scene. She could feel Flip’s eyes seizing the opportunity to check out her ass before she could settle into the scrap of seat that wasn’t covered with papers and discarded snack wrappers.

***

“What is this place?” Sam asked, looking up at the structure with curiosity as she slammed the door of the truck closed behind her. A castle-like tower sat before them on a hill, its stone walls rising skyward from the surrounding craggy red rocks and low brush.  

“Local oddity to Will Rogers built after the Depression by a couple of weirdos,” Flip replied casually as he dug a cigarette out of his front pocket, pressing it to his lips, and then lighting it. “Part tourist trap, part religious shrine,” he finished with an exhale of smoke.

“Do you know what that does to your body?” Sam waved her hand towards Flip in attempt to shoo the toxic cloud away from her.  

“Thanks for the warning, Surgeon General.”

Long strips of yellow police tape had been strung up, blocking off the pathway that led up to the tower, fluttering in the breeze as Flip and Sam approached the area. A few beat cops mingled around, unable to do much aside from guard the area from any curious passersby until detectives and the medical examiner arrived.  

“What do we got?” Sam questioned one of the officers, fishing her notepad and pen from her bag.

“Supposedly ain’t too pretty,” the officer replied. “Lady found her earlier. Said she came up here for her daily prayers. Barely could get a statement out cause she kept cryin’ so hard.”

“Is she still here?” Flip inquired.   

“Yeah, over with Paterson,” the officer nodded toward another squad car parked nearby. The back door was open with a middle aged woman hunched over, hugging her legs, still clearly distraught.  

“We’ll give her a minute while we take a look.” Clipping her pen to the pad, Sam looked over at Flip.  “Let’s move Marlboro man.”

Flip raised the police tape, allowing Sam to slip under first, making sure to stay downwind as he took the last few drags of his cigarette as they followed the path up to the entranceway.  He didn’t need any more smartass comments about his habit.

The hallway was dim, flanked by memorabilia displayed in low glass cases and framed pictures on the walls of a cowboy star from a bygone era. Sam’s heels clicked against the stone floor, echoing around them as they reached the chapel. A single officer stood at the doorway. Sam and Flip flashed their badges, granting them a nod of approval to continue on.   

The chapel itself was a large circular room, cast in a dim glow of red light flooding out from the wrought iron sconces on the walls. In the center, a towering angel statue perched on top of a stone tomb. The angelic figure looked skyward, her hands outstretched, offering up a prayer to the heavens. At the base of the statue, the corpse of a woman lay in a similar fashion, propped up, her arms dangling limply outward in a clear mimicry of her resting place.  

It was evident the woman had been dead long before she wound up here, killed and then placed, like artwork in a museum. There was no sign of a struggle and no blood splatter around her. The blood coating the front of her clothing had long dried, oxidized into a deep black stain. Her dress was crumpled and torn, arms littered with cuts and bruises. Yet, her hair was perfect, not a strand out of place, as if whomever placed her here had brushed it like she was their doll, modeling her to be found. Her lifeless eyes had been pushed in their sockets to look up, forever gazing to the heavens. A wooden rosary dangled from around her battered neck, a prayer card featuring Our Lady of the Atonement tucked alongside the crucifix.

“Jesus,” Flip muttered, taking in the scene before them.  

“Or some sort of ode to it,” Sam quipped back dryly, already in medical examiner mode. Clicking her pen, she flipped open her notepad, stepping closer to the woman’s body. “Strangulation,” Sam commented, gesturing at the girl’s battered neck. “Look at the pattern of the wounds-multiple ligature marks.”

“That wasn’t the killer’s original intention,” Flip observed.

“What makes you say that?” Sam looked up from her notes, the scratching of her pen ceasing as she stared at Flip.    

“Look at the side of her neck,” Flip commented, pointing to a cluster of bruises, some shades of various blues, others deep and purple. “He was toying with her. Letting her know that he _would_ kill her, she just wouldn’t know when or _how_. Seems like he got a little too excited and did her in early, unlike the others. Regardless, this guy’s got a clear pattern.”

“Sick bastard,” Sam muttered, jotting down another note as she shook her head. “But it’s nice to know you _were_ listening this morning, Zimmerman.”

“Check her nails,” Flip advised, ignoring Sam’s dig.

Sam crouched down next to the girl, examining her lifeless fingers. Her nails were well manicured, coated in a light pink paint. All except one. Her pinky nail was missing, carved out from her skin in a crude manner.  

“I need to bag and tag as well as take photos of all this before I can get the D.B. back to the morgue for autopsy. I’ll likely be a while so would you mind going and having a chat with our witness?”

Flip nodded in affirmation and made his way out of the chapel back toward the police cruiser that housed the addled witness. The woman was still hunched over, the occasional sob shaking her body as he approached her. This was the part of the job Flip hated, dealing with the human emotion that came alongside of death.  

“Ma'am?” The woman looked up, her eyes ringed red from crying. “I’m Detective Zimmerman,” Flip introduced himself. “I was told you were the one who found the girl’s body. Care to tell me what happened?”

The woman pressed her palm against her mouth, shaking her head as she bit back a sob. “I don’t know anything,” she blubbered. “I just want to go home.”  

“We’re either going to talk about it here or I’ll have Officer Paterson bring you down to the station.  Please don’t make my day any longer than it has to be,” Flip demanded.

The woman burst into a fresh set of tears causing Flip to run his fingers through his hair in frustration and release a heavy sigh. _Of course_. Not only was this woman dramatic, she was also needing to be coddled.

Lighting yet another cigarette, Flip tried again. “Let’s start from the beginning,” he asserted gently.  “About what time did you arrive here?”

“Around...around two, maybe? I was later than usual for my midday prayers.”

“Did you notice anything right away?” Flip urged her on.  

“I like the angel statue. That’s why I come here.”

Flip didn’t ask for her life story, but this happened with witnesses on occasion. At the rate they were going, his already missed lunch was now going to be a very late dinner.

“Did you see the body right away?” Flip cut to the chase. “Did you see anyone else around?”

The woman swallowed, clutching her chest as she began crying again, deep gulping gasps. “It was horrible. She was just…oh I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Flip encouraged.

“She was just... _there_ ...like _that_. I couldn’t. I went straight to the pay phone and called the police.”

Flip nodded. Whoever had left her there was long gone, luck on their side that someone hadn’t come by sooner. His stomach grumbled as he flicked his cigarette to the ground, stomping it out with his boot tip.  

“Paterson!” he barked at the nearby officer. “Get this woman some more tissue, she’s free to go.”

Flip knew the woman would be of no further assistance and saw no point in detaining her further. God he missed having Bill around, C.S.P.D.’s old medical examiner, in situations like this. He’d always had a way with people.    

_December 1978_

Flip made his way downstairs, past the office where he would often spend his downtime lounging on the couch. At the far end of the hall was the morgue with another adjoining office and workroom tucked away at the back. Pushing open the door, the cold, stale air hit Flip immediately as he entered, calling out for Colorado Springs’ lone forensic pathologist.

“Hey Bill!” the rugged detective greeted.   
  
“Flip! Good to see you!” Bill answered. 

Despite his appearance Bill Mason was the best in the business and Flip enjoyed working with him as he was always friendly and thorough in his work. The balding man typically donned a wrinkled lab coat and khakis that were two sizes too big belted around his waist. More often than not, Flip found himself staying later than he should, accepting a cup of coffee from the small pot Bill kept atop his filing cabinet. They never talked in depth of their lives, Bill usually rambling on about how he and his wife were finally looking at properties down in Florida. ‘Can’t take another Colorado winter’ Bill would say, laughing a bit before taking a sip of his own coffee.      
  
“You all set?” Bill asked, surprised to see Flip with a case file tucked under his arm.

Usually Flip would jot down the occasional note, committing most to memory. Making only the necessary marks on the body diagram that would be submitted to the official case file.   
  
“Yeah.” Flip replied, as he followed Bill into the autopsy room, their subject already laid out on the stainless steel table.

Most of the female vic was covered with a sheet, but Flip could already make out her battered face. Taking a pen out of his shirt pocket, he set the case file aside, only withdrawing a few blank sheets of paper and the official diagram. Bill removed a pair of gloves from a box, pulling them over his hands, the latex squeaking and snapping as he pulled them on. Stepping towards the table, Bill carefully removed the sheet from the body, exposing the full extent of her injuries. Ever the professional, Bill folded the sheet neatly, setting it aside as he stepped back towards the table.    
  
“Ready?”     
  
Flip nodded. He was here to take notes, record every detail of Bill’s findings so he could spend his afternoon at his own desk mulling over any connections or motives. Bill began rattling off the basics of what lay before them.   
  
“Female, early 20s, brown hair, brown eyes.” Flip began scribbling down notes as Bill spoke. “Several areas of hematoma on cheeks, eyes, and facial area. All appear to be of the same age. No signs of on ongoing abuse. Trauma was all from a single event. Did you find any identification at the scene?” Bill glanced over his glasses at Flip.     
  
“Nada. No purse or wallet and nothing on her person.” A look of disappointment crossed Bill’s face.

Snapping back into examiner mode, Bill lifted the girl’s lifeless arm from the table, studying it for a moment.

“Small scar on her left elbow. Looks like an old injury. No tattoos. Huh, this is odd. She’s missing her right pinky fingernail. You got all that?”  
  
Flip turned the page he was writing on over, nodding his head again, that he in fact had gathered all the necessary information from Bill’s external examination. Knowing what was coming next as his colleague opened a drawer, Flip wished he could smoke. Tapping his foot against the ground, he waited as Bill finished readying his tools, setting them all out neatly in a row. Picking up a scalpel, Flip held his pen against the paper again, waiting for the next round of information.     
  
“How was that casserole Louise sent home with you the other night?” Bill asked, continuing to glide his scalpel down Jane Doe’s sternum, creating a flawless Y-incision with his trained hand.

Flip looked away, instead focusing on a spot on the wall to distract himself from what was happening in front of him. He had seen this dozens of times before--he could deal with the corpses, the lifeless bodies laying out before him as Bill did the external examination.Yet, when it came to this part, he still always felt his stomach seesaw. Swallowing, Flip tried to remain focused, studying the patterns on the painted cinderblock walls of the of the morgue.

“It was good. Tell Louise I always appreciate it.”   
  
“Good. You up for poker again on Thursday? Asked Ron if he wanted in as well. He really whooped us when he laid down that straight last time.” Bill kept at his gruesome work, as if it was as mundane to him as transcribing a report on a typewriter. In many ways, it was. He was desensitized to the fact that this was a body, no longer a human being with emotions and dreams as it once had been.

Flip had long done much the same. Investigating a crime left little room for feeling. He was on scene to gather facts and evidence, not wallow in the fact that a person’s life had been cut short in a grisly fashion. Of course he wished to seek justice for the victims, but learned early on that this wasn’t personal, it was his job. He just didn’t have a very strong stomach like his cohort, Bill, who could plop organs into a bowl and then ask if you wanted to get lunch afterwards.  

Nothing internally from the examination had given any tell tale clues that would assist Flip in solving the case, but Bill was still hopeful.

“We’ll send these out to the lab in Denver,” he stated, pointing to the tissue samples now encased in small glass tubes. “If we’re lucky something will pop, but I think we’re finished here for today.”    

_January 1979_

“Hate to see you down here again so soon,” Bill began. Flip was already heading straight for Bill’s coffee pot, grabbing a cup and filling it to the top. “No room for cream?” Bill lilted, taking the pot from Flip to refill his own mug. “Must be keeping you busy upstairs.”  

One open homicide investigation with an ever growing mountain of a case file on Flip’s desk had kept him at the station late nearly every night for two weeks. These were the times he missed being a beat cop; with steady twelve hour shifts he knew when he’d be punching in and out. Making detective was one of the prouder moments of Flip’s life, but he knew when he’d accepted the promotion that being home in time for the Broncos game were over.  

While a homicide was not unheard of in Colorado Springs, the manner of this case was different.  Usually, between witnesses or after a brief meeting with Narcotics, cases were solved rather quickly, and months would pass before another came across his desk. Now, Flip found himself exactly where he was only a few weeks prior, his work doubling in an instant.

Opening a new manila folder and his notepad, Flip propped himself up against an empty table across from Bill’s workstation as the M.E. began the autopsy. He could feel his eyes grow heavy as Bill rattled off the external observations he was making, Flip’s hand jotted things down as if on autopilot.  He was going to have to find time to steal away to his favorite couch in Bridge’s office at some point today for a quick nap.

Even with Bill’s coffee, Flip felt like he was dragging, his mind lagging five minutes behind the rest of him. He’d barely noticed Bill moving onto the next portion of the examination, fumbling for the evidence form, and dropping his pen to the ground in the process.  

“You still with me over there?” Bill asked.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m good,” Flip assured as he bent to pick his pen up from the speckled linoleum tile, shaking his head to try and get himself focused again.

Bill paused, making sure Flip was situated. He knew Flip, probably better than anyone else at the station, and could tell he had been throwing himself into his work a bit more than usual as of late. He didn’t like to leave things unfinished, something Bill understood well as he saw very much of himself in the younger man.

Before Louise, Bill devoted every hour he could to his career, knowing full well that the law enforcement profession had the reputation to all consume. Over the years, Bill found a balance between work at the station and life outside it. He knew Flip didn’t have that, or perhaps just hadn’t figured it out yet. There was nothing to tear him away from his desk, telling him to switch off the light and _come home._  

With his usual grace, Bill continued his work, tracing against the skin with a practiced swoop. Flip found focus on his usual spot on the wall, counting the divots in the cinderblock, as Bill pinned the vic’s skin aside to expose the chest cavity.  

“I’ve got some news for you,” Bill paused from his work, setting his tool aside. Flip extracted his gaze from the wall, trying to ignore the table, and converging on Bill in his wrinkled lab coat. The older man looked unsure, almost nervous, something that Flip rarely had seen from him. “Louise and I are finally doing it; moving down to Florida. Afraid to say, this is going to be our last time doing this together.”  

“You’re leaving?”

“Wish I could stick around to see you figure all this out,” Bill gestured to the body between them. “But the city said I’d logged enough time for retirement and made me an offer I just couldn’t refuse. Bought us a nice little ranch couple blocks from the beach. You should come down sometime. Getting out of this cold would do you some good and you know Louise would love to have you.”  

Flip plopped down on the table he’d been leaning against, rubbing his hand across his stubbled chin, taking it all in. Bill had always _talked_ about retiring. He’d listened to countless stories of _one day_ and _when I’m finally done here_ , but he never really thought the day would come. Yet here it was. They would have to find someone to fill Bill’s spot for poker night.  

Gone were his lone home cooked meal of the week of whatever new recipe Louise had tried out of her _Better Homes and Gardens_ subscription. She always made sure to double the recipe to ensure Flip was sent home with a foil pan of his own. He’d miss Bill’s weakly brewed coffee, always hot and waiting for him whenever he was downstairs.  Worst of all, Flip realized, was that he was left with now two unsolved homicides and no one else at the station that had anywhere near the experience or knowledge that Bill did.

“And I wouldn’t worry too much. Denver’s got a top notch M.E. they’re sending your way as my replacement. Sam somethin’ or other. Missing pinky nail again,” Bill noted, breaking Flip from his thoughts. Scribbling down Bill’s comment on his notepad, recognizing the similarity with the first victim, and reminding himself to review both autopsy notes side by side once he got back upstairs.  

“Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

_February 1979_

Sam slid the most recent vic’s body out of the morgue’s storage fridge and onto her examination table, pulling back the sheet, and laying out her tools for ease of use. Snapping on a pair of latex gloves, the rubber creaking against her skin, she looked over at Flip to see him focusing hard on the cinderblock wall across from him.

“Are you just going to stand there, Zimmerman, or are you going to do what a detective is _supposed_ to do and pay attention?”

“How about you do your job and I’ll do mine. Hmmm?” Flip intoned, dragging his focus from his usual spot on the wall and slowly looking down at the examination table. Sam had already made multiple incisions, opening the chest cavity, exposing all what lay beneath. The blood and gore of crime scenes never bothered Flip, usually too preoccupied with gathering information to dwell on the fact that there was a possible mozaic of bodily fluids and entrails close by. Autopsies, on the other hand, were clinical, with no distractions, just bones and organs on full display.

Feeling his stomach lurch at the sight, Flip felt his throat tighten as the contents of his stomach rushed upward. His hand flew to his mouth, cupping over his lips to contain his half digested toast and coffee from breakfast. He was not about to vomit in front of the new M.E. Squeezing his eyes shut, he forced himself to swallow with a shudder.

“Did you just?” Sam asked, looking askance at the thorn in her side.

“Fuck you, Fisher,” Flip gritted, wiping across his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

"No thanks. Who knows what I might catch."

“I didn’t realize Bill’s replacement would be such a frosty bitch.”

Sam bristled at his words.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth, Zimmerman? Perhaps you should skip breakfast, next time, if you can’t keep it down.”

“Next time? What makes you think you’re sticking around that long?”

Sam set her scalpel down figuring it best not to have a sharp object in her hand as she prepared to rip Flip a new one.

“You must have missed the memo, or perhaps just had trouble reading it. Either way, I’m the _permanent_ medical examiner of El Paso County, not some airheaded temp job.”

Flip chuckled, causing Sam to narrow her eyes at him.

“Must’ve really pissed somebody off in Denver to wind up working out here.”

Flip reached for his coffee, taking a sip, trying to wash away the taste from his mouth. Between budget cuts and the geopolitical tension with the Soviet Union, Colorado Springs was lucky to keep someone like Bill around for so long. No one was exactly clamoring for job applications, especially for positions that required more contact with the dead than the living. He had already heard Sam grumbling about the lack of equipment and outdated examination room before they’d even begun.

Ignoring his last comment, Sam returned to her work. She didn’t need to justify to this overgrown mountain of flannel as to _why_ she was here. Examining the thoracic cavity, Sam lifted the vic’s lungs onto a scale. Reaching back in, she pushed against the chest wall with slightly more force than necessary, causing a spurt of decomposition fluids to fly up and hit her square in the face. Recoiling in surprise, she instantly reached for a roll of paper towels to get the matter off of her.

“You got a little something…” Flip tried to hide his smirk as he stepped forward to try and assist.

“Aren’t we observant,” Sam scoffed, wiping the last of the spatter from her face. “Did you find your badge at the bottom of your cereal box this morning?” _Swell_ she thought to herself as she tossed the paper towel in the waste bin. _Why’d she agree to take this job again?_

_January 1979_

“Hey Rook?! The Chief wants to see ya.”

“I’ve been here two years Peterson. That hardly still qualifies me as a rookie,” Sam shot back at the obnoxious cop, peering up from her stack of reports with narrowed eyes.

“Whatever...the Chief. His office. _Now.”_

Sam slammed the manilla file folder shut with a huff, sliding her aching feet back into her heels before making her way down the hall to Chief Jones’ office. _Wonder what he wants to talk my ear off about this time?_ she thought as she rapt lightly on the wooden door.

“Come in,” came a succinctly gruff voice.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Ah, Fisher, yes. Have a seat,” Chief Jones said as he gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Oh and close the door behind ya.” The junior medical examiner did as she was instructed, neatly crossing her legs at the ankles after taking a seat in the hard plastic chair. “You’ve been here, what, a year?”

“Two years, sir,” Sam answered and the Chief nodded.

“A position’s come up in Colorado Springs. Their current M.E., Bill Mason, is retiring.”

“Bill is--What does that have to do with me?”

“You’ve been analyzing the tissue samples that Mason’s been sending up here, yeah?”

“For the two unsolved murder cases? Yeah.”

“Well, I’ve recommended you to Chief Bridges since you’re already familiar with the cases, he’s very keen to meet you. And if you decide to take the job it’ll mean you’d be the lead M.E. for El Paso County.”

“A promotion?” Sam stared at Chief Jones incredulously. “I thought you didn’t even like me that much, Dan?” Sam said, causing the older gentleman to guffaw.

“I’m a man of few words and even fewer in shelling out the warm fuzzies. But I will say you’ve always been good at your job, Samantha. I’ve worked with a few M.E.’s throughout my time on the force and I count you among some of the best. You deserve this.”

“I--I...when does Chief Bridges expect to hear from me?”

“Today, if at all possible. I think it goes without saying that Mason’s retirement doesn’t come at the most opportune time, with a potential serial killer on the loose.”

Sam nodded gravely. She knew Jones was right. This is what she’d been working toward and her moment had finally arrived. It was time to shine, even if it meant doing so all the way out in the sticks.

_February 1979_

“You got him, Rookie?” Ron held tight to the arm of the man, eyeing the fresh faced officer as he gave him instructions. “Right up to the integration room. No stops, no talking. I’ll be up in a minute.”  The rookie nodded, more than excited to be out of the file room and actually handling _real_ criminals.  

Taking the man’s arm from Ron, the officer began leading the perp down the hall to the elevators.  Ron watched for a moment, making sure the man wasn’t going to start any trouble. Assured that he was fine, Ron headed towards the bullpen, needing a fresh cup of coffee and some files.  

Per usual, Ron found Flip lingering near the coffee pot, taking a drag from a cigarette as he filled his mug.  

“Jimmy use all the sugar packets again?” Ron asked, rifling around the small basket that held coffee stirrers and plastic creamer cups.  

Flip shrugged impassively as Ron resigned that it was going to be just creamer today.  

“That’s right, you take it straight,” Ron grimaced. The coffee at the station was bad enough, how Flip drank it black was beyond him.  

“You finally nab that guy you’ve been after?”  

“About to go have a chat with him now. Shit, he’s guilty as hell. Shouldn’t take long. Just want a confession out of him so I can get home and take Patrice out tonight.”

Ron rambled on about his plans later, Flip half listening as he watched Sam walk in, crossing the room towards his desk. _Like she owns the place_ Flip thought to himself, leaning back in his chair to get a better view of her bending over to notate on his case file.

“This way, Lewis!” came the rookie’s voice leading the Juggernaut of a man around the corner.

“Get your hands off me Five-O!” Lewis rumbled.

“Cooperate or you’re gonna have more problems than you walked in here with.”

“I didn’t do nothin’.”  
  
“Detective Stallworth feels otherwise. Now move it!”

“Fuckin’ spook,” Lewis hissed.

“What was that?!”

“Did. I. Stutter? I _said_ \--”

“Is there a problem here Officer Whitlock?” Sam interjected, stepping up to the pair, all eyes in the bullpen snapping to her. “Certainly my ears must’ve deceived me because there’s no way I just heard a racist slur escape your disgusting mouth?” she continued, now addressing the slovenly man in Whitlock’s custody.

“Everything’s fine Doctor Fisher. I just need to get _Lewis_ here to--” Before Whitlock could finish his statement, Lewis grabbed Sam so she couldn’t wiggle free of his hold. Squirming wildly, she tried to work an arm free in hopes of jabbing her elbow into his side. It was a fruitless effort, the guy was too big and burly, his hold only tightening around her the more she fought against him.

"Ain't you a sweet thing." The creep took a deep inhale at the curve of Sam’s neck, rubbing his cheek against her soft tresses. "And you smell so _sweet_ ."

"And you smell like a bloated dead whale. Now let go of me!"

"Mmmmm...I love it when you talk dirty," he moaned, so close that Sam could smell the rot of his breath.

Scrunching her nose, Sam tried to pull away again, Lewis’ hold squeezing the air from her lungs. She could hear the clamoring of people around her as she tried to focus on something...anything.  

“Fisher!” Flip’s voice rang out. Sam’s eyes connected with his as she began to mouth a countdown of 3-2-1, Flip giving her a knowing nod. Without further hesitation, Sam sunk her teeth into the arm of her captor.

"Argh you little bitch!" Lewis screamed, throwing her toward the floor. Sam's head connected with the edge of a nearby desk as she tumbled to the ground, knocking her out cold.

Flip drove at the perp, tackling him to floor, before rearing back to let his fist connect with the animal's face over and over. He had dealt with enough racist pieces of shit, he wasn’t about to let this one get away with what he’d said or done. He barely registered Ron pulling at his shoulders, trying to get him off of the man, too focused on getting one more blow in.  

"Zimmerman! Yo Flip! I got this okay?" Ron's soothing voice echoed distantly in Flip’s ears. "Get Fisher," He gestured over to Sam's unconscious body.

"Shit...shit...shit!” Flip panicked, lifting Sam’s limp form into his arms ignoring the throbbing in his right hand. “Fisher?!...Sam?!... _Samantha?!_ "

"Mmmmm...You smell nice," Sam groaned with a quiet chuckle.

"Okay...let's get you to the hospital. You hit your head pretty hard."

“I’m fine.”

"No, you need to see a doctor."

"I _am_ a doctor and I say I'm _fine_."

"Hospital. Now."

"So bossy, but I said no, grab my medical kit from my office. I’ll tell you what to look for." Flip rolled his eyes and helped Sam to her feet, but her knees buckled instantly, sending her right back down to the floor. Bending down, the handsome detective slid his arm behind Sam’s legs, and hoisted her into a bridal carry. “What are you--”

“Don’t argue. It’s either this or I take you to the hospital,” Flip insisted, much to Sam’s chagrin, and walked in the direction of the Chief’s office. “Wait here,” he instructed to Sam, who was now seated comfortably on the well loved couch in Bridge’s office, before dashing down the hall to grab her medical bag.

Sam watched Flip intently as he opened the bag, rummaging around looking for butterfly bandages and antiseptic.

"Your hand." Sam reached forward, her fingers brushing lightly against Flip's arm.

"It's fine."

Sam let it go with a huff as she wasn't exactly in top debating form at present.

Coming across a small flashlight buried at the bottom of the medical bag, Flip clicked it on, shining it into Sam’s eyes.  

“What are you doing? You don’t need that.”  

“Hold still. You might have a concussion.”  

“I think you just want to put your bear paws all over my stuff, Zimmerman.”

Flip bit his tongue, trying not to give her a smart ass quip of how that sounded, focusing, instead, on her injuries. A knot had already begun forming on her forehead beneath a cut that was oozing a small amount of blood.

“Fisher? You okay.” Chief Bridges burst in, eyes blazing with concern.

“As I’ve already told Zimmerman here, I’m fine, but he won’t listen.”

“You’ve got a nasty bump on your head and you’re bleeding, Fisher. How about you just let him work his merit badge magic and then take the rest of the day off. That’s an order.”

“Yes sir,” Sam grumbled. Flip made no attempt at hiding his satisfaction as he reached for the rubbing alcohol and a cotton ball. “Don’t look so smug.” Wincing at the sting of the antiseptic, Sam watched Flip as he gently tended to her injuries. “Where’d you learn to do all this anyway?”

“Boy Scouts. We’d go camping pretty often and inevitably someone would end up hurt and/or bleeding. The Scout Master made sure we earned our First-Aid badges pretty quick since he had a troop of clumsy-ass kids on his hands. Guess it just stuck with me,” Flip said with a shrug.

“I bet you were adorable in your little uniform,” Sam teased. Flip glared at the M.E. through narrowed eyes, placing the butterfly bandage over the small gash on her forehead a bit more forcefully than he’d initially intended. “Ouch!”

“Sorry.” Sam waved off his apology knowing she’d overstepped. “I’ll drive you home. Where are your keys?”

“I’m not letting you--” Flip’s no nonsense stare cut Sam off and sent an odd sensation running down her spine. “They’re in my purse. Right bottom desk drawer.”

It was truly a sight to behold witnessing Flip fold himself into her cheery yellow Bronco. Sam was doing everything in her power not to bust out in hysterical unladylike laughter. The way he had to push the seat practically into the tailgate just so he could allow his knees a hair’s breadth of space from the dashboard was beyond comical. It was like fitting a boulder into a teacup.

“Might I suggest yoga?”

Flip briefly paused putting on his seatbelt to shoot Sam another steely glare.

“You know? For next time,” she added with a smile.

Flip remained silent as he turned the key in the ignition, roaring the engine to life. He wasn’t about to give Sam the tongue lashing she so clearly deserved for her snark at least not while she had that goose egg protruding from her forehead.

***

“Turn here,” Sam instructed. Pulling into the gravel driveway Flip’s eyes darted to a small and very _yellow_ bungalow and released a snort. _Of course her house would match her car_ he thought, throwing the Bronco’s gear shift into park.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Let’s get you inside.”

Sam reached for the door handle, but Flip leaned over stilling her small hand with his larger one. “Stay put.”

Dropping her hand from the latch with a sigh, Sam did as she was told, finding it best not to argue with the man while her head continued to throb incessantly.

“You’re not gonna haul me around like a sack of potatoes again are you?”

“If you can manage to actually stay upright, no.” Flip clamored out of the driver’s seat, glad to be free of the small confines. Sam’s perfume had been permeating the inside of the vehicle making his head go fuzzy and blood flow straight to his cock. _Why did she have to smell so fucking good on top of everything else?_

Wrenching open the passenger side door, Flip allowed Sam to swivel and set her high heel clad feet onto the gravel driveway. She placed her hands in his proffered ones, letting Flip pull her to a standing position, swaying only for a moment before finding her footing.

“I think I’m okay to walk to my front door, Zimmerman,” Sam glowered as she felt Flip’s hand guiding her against her lower back.

“Or you could just let me helpful. It’s the least I can do, Fisher, fuck. You sure know how to pick your battles don’t you?”

“And what's that supposed to mean exactly?” Sam fumed as she snatched her keys out of Flip’s hand.

“Meaning Ron’s perp was five times your size and you just threw yourself into harm’s way by getting up in his face. Do you need to have your head examined?”

“I have to deal with your hulking ass day in and day out. I’d say that asshole was a walk in the park by comparison. Besides, I wasn’t about to let him get away with spouting that garbage about Stallworth. It’s 1979 for Pete’s sake, people like that need to get a goddamn clue and I’ve never been one to back away from a challenge either. Just ask Chief Jones,” Sam concluded with a shake of laughter.

“Still…” Flip paused as Sam swung open her front door.

“Would you like to come in? I can make you a sandwich or something. I mean it’s the least I can do after...”

“Uh...I appreciate the offer.” Flip rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. “But I told Ron to meet me here to take me back to the station. Should be around any minute.”

“Oh. Okay. No problem. Well...uh...thanks. For everything.”

“Anytime. Let’s just not make this a habit.” Sam nodded, a small smile decorating her face. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Flip smirked and turned to go back down the front porch steps just as Ron’s car pulled up at the end of the driveway.

"Hey Zimmerman!" Sam called. Flip turned toward her wordlessly. "Ice that hand would ya?"

Flip smiled, giving the M.E. a mock salute.

"Yes ma'am!"

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life keeps happening, but we're still here...promise! Enjoy!

 

_ March 1979  _

Flip rolled to his side, the phone ringing loudly as it echoed across his small apartment. He groaned as he reached for the receiver, a dull ache steadily burgeoning into a full blown pounding at the base of his skull. One too many Coors the night before had left him fuzzy headed as he picked up the receiver.   
  
“Hello?” Flip mumbled, his voice thick from sleep, his mouth dry.   
  
“Zimmerman,” Sam’s voice rang through the line clearly.  “We’ve got another one.”    
  
Flip groaned. He wasn’t ready for this again. Pressing the phone to his shoulder, he sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.     
  
“Where at?”    


“You familiar with Mineral Springs?” 

“Yeah.”   
  
“Meet me there in 20,” Sam instructed. The line disconnected and Flip looked at the phone as if it offended him.    
  
It was unusually warm for this early in the season. Snow still clung to the ground in the shaded areas despite the first few crocuses already starting to bloom, hinting that the long winter was coming to a close. Flip shucked his coat off, cursing his decision for wearing a heavy winter flannel today, but it was the first relatively clean item of clothing he came across as he fumbled to get dressed. Forgoing a shower for the sake of time, Flip had barely managed to grab a piece of toast to calm his stomach before dashing out the door. 

Tossing his coat into his truck, he slammed the door, scanning the parking lot for any sign of Sam. Squinting, he tried to will away the headache that nagged painfully, the bright sun only serving to make matters worse. Flip spotted Sam’s signature 1968 Ford Bronco in a disgustingly cheery yellow turn in off the main road, kicking up a trail of red dust behind it before coming to stop.  

Grabbing her bag off the passenger seat, Sam stepped out of the SUV, slinging it over her shoulder. Gone was her pressed skirt, instead opting for a more casual navy blue pantsuit.  Flip stole a quick look as she bent over the front seat to grab two styrofoam cups from the cupholder before turning back around.    

“Well aren’t you bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning,” Sam greeted with about as much warmth as the snow banks in the shade, passing a coffee to Flip, which he took gratefully. “You smell like an ashtray.”

“Morning to you too.” Flip was relieved to see that the lone squad car already at the scene did not harbor a distraught woman crying hysterically in the backseat. He wasn’t sure he had the willpower to interview anyone today, yet his head pulsed at the fact that if there was no one else there, it meant no witnesses. 

Sam had already marched past the groggy detective; chatting with the officer who was now pointing her in the direction they needed to head. Flip followed Sam up a small embankment, a well laid hiking trail winding through patchy grass, the occasional red rock jutting out from the ground. Ahead of them, the land flattened out into a wide open area. In the center of the clearing, a woman’s body lay displayed in an elaborate presentation.  Her hair was fanned out around her head, brushed smooth against the ground reminiscent of a halo. She was completely nude, her arms outstretched away from her body, palms turned up, forever praising the sky above her. As they grew closer to her, they noticed her skin was far from flesh colored, instead painted with an array of hues and symbols. 

Methodically Sam dug her notepad from her bag, flipping to a blank page, scribbling down notes as they reached the body. 

“Looks like some kind of fucked up Pollock painting.” Flip casually stated as he walked around to the opposite side, trying to make sense of _ why.  _

“More like a bad kindergarten art project.” 

“Any idea of what these mean?” 

Crouching down, Sam tilted her head to the side as she studied a particularly large splotch of paint that traced down the woman’s neck to her shoulder in a swirl of brushstrokes. The lettering was sloppy, yet Sam instantly recognized the words. 

“Fiat mihi secundum verbum,” she read aloud, causing Flip to look over at her completely confused as if she’d just spoken in tongues. 

“What?” 

“You went to public school didn’t you?” Sam asked blankly, trying to not glare at the confused detective across from her. “Be it done unto me according to thy word,” she translated, years of Catholic school finally paying off for something.

Flip’s mind immediately visualized Sam dressed in the traditional St. Mary’s uniform as he took a gulp of his coffee; scalding his tongue. 

“Are you getting any of this?” Sam asked as she stood, turning around and knocking directly into Flip.  She hadn’t expected him to be standing so close, the styrofoam cup of coffee in her hand flying forward, lid popping off as the rest of her morning beverage soaked into the front of Flip’s shirt.  

“ _ Yes _ ,” Flip winced feeling the heat of Sam’s coffee connect with his skin. He brushed his hand down his chest to try and wipe away the spill, but it was too late, the thick flannel of his shirt had already soaked most of it in.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry. Shit that must burn. Let me see if I have anything in my bag to help…” Sam knelt back down, tearing through her bag until she came across some burn gel that she kept stashed in her impromptu first-aid kit.

“Fisher,” Flip called, but got no response from the M.E. “Fisher!” Sam continued to rifle through her medical bag. “Samantha!” 

“Wha--what?” Sam paused--burn gel in hand--looking flustered. She had been distracted, her mind racing with thoughts of Flip.  Never would she have thought that the detective would feel so solid, how even for the few seconds she was pressed against him, she felt oddly secure.  

“It’s fine...I can just shower when we get back to the station.”

“But…”

“Really. I’ll be fine. Let’s just finish up here, okay? You still have an autopsy to do.”

***

Walking down the hall on her way to the morgue, the file folder Sam had precariously balanced on top of her coffee mug went careening toward the floor with a quiet whoosh, skidding to a stop just outside Bridge’s office. Kneeling down to gather up the scattered papers, a blurred movement caught her peripheral. Smoothing her pant suit as she stood, Sam noticed that the chief's office door had been left slightly ajar. Unable to quelch her curiosity she leaned slightly to the right to get a better look at what had captured her interest. Standing in the middle of the room stood Flip Zimmerman, sans shirt, every inch of taut muscle on display as he rifled through a duffle bag. Sam swallowed thickly. Never in a million years had she envisioned that the irritating detective would be hiding that level of deliciousness underneath his flannel. Before she could be caught gawking at Colorado’s finest, Sam made a beeline for the nearest ladies room. 

Slamming the stall door something desperate came over Sam. Her breaths were coming hard and swift, a light sheen of sweat had formed on her brow, and an ache had settled heavily at the apex of her thighs. Sam had been working with Flip for months and never felt such an urge, but whatever  _ this _ was, had hit her like a freight train. The throbbing wasn’t easing up, so she did the only thing she could think to do in such a dire moment. 

Unbuttoning her slacks, Sam thrusts her fingers between her soaked folds, and began rubbing at her fully engorged clit in search of the release she so desperately craved. Sam bit her lip to keep her cries at bay as her fingers worked their magic, but it wasn’t enough. Closing her eyes she let her mind drift to thoughts of a certain detective who smelled of pine, cigarette smoke, and cheap beer. Sam razzed Flip on a constant basis for his life choices, however, at present, it only served to push her closer to her release. She thought of what it would feel like to have his hands on her body pinching her nipples, his tongue roving over her sex, and his cock stretching her like no other man could. 

Donning a clean shirt, Flip heads down the hall towards Sam’s office to go over the findings from today’s crime scene, hoping that something has popped on the autopsy.  As he passes the ladies restroom doorway, he slows, the soft keening of a woman echoing from inside. Flip backs up a bit, curious if the rookie and the new girl working in records finally stopped beating around the bush.

“At least somebody’s getting some,” Flip mumbles to himself.  

Knowing full well what kind of man Flip was, she thought of all the dirty things he would say to her:  _ How good does my cock make you feel, sweetheart? Fuck, you feel so fucking good, like your pussy was made for me. Gonna fill you up so good, baby. If you’re a good girl, I’m gonna let you come all over my cock. _ It was at that last thought, Sam couldn’t stop the wanton moans she’d been working so hard to suppress from bursting forth as her climax took hold, stars exploding from behind her shuttered eyelids, dotting her vision.

Thinking nothing more of what’s going on behind closed doors at the station, Flip starts to move towards Sam’s office once more until a familiar voice catches his attention, halting him abruptly.

“Oh God!” Sam cries weakly.

Flip swallows thickly, running his palm against the front of his jeans, adjusting himself, a million thoughts racing through his mind.

_ Walk away, Zimmerman. Just walk away. _

Staying hidden in the bathroom long enough to gather her wits about her again, Sam tries to recenter herself. She did  _ not  _ relish the idea of running into Flip, looking like she’d just gone ten rounds with Han Solo in the cockpit of the Millenium Falcon. Patting her hair back in place, righting her slacks, and finally feeling like she looked suitable enough, Sam exited the restroom, straight into a brick wall of plaid.

“Everything alright?” Flip rasped, his dark eyes gazing down at Sam intensely. 

Sam started at the sudden close proximity of her desire, now fully clothed, loitering outside the ladies room door.

“ _ Fuck _ Zimmerman!” Flip tried to not let the way Sam had uttered ‘ _ fuck _ ’ affect him, but his cock 

twitched in protest. “Do you always lurk outside bathroom doors lying in wait for unsuspecting women?”

“Very funny. Was just passing by on my way to see you is all and thought I...nevermind.”

Sam’s heart began to race.  _ Shit! I hope he didn’t hear anything _ . 

“I...uh...spilled hot coffee on my hand,” Sam replied, as she held up her right hand. “Just went to run it under some cold water.” 

Flip gently took her raised hand in his and inspected it thoroughly; Sam’s breath catching at his warm touch.

“Looks okay to me,” Flip said nonchalantly. “But maybe you should switch to tea since you can’t seem to keep coffee in a cup.” He added with a smirk looking down at his now clean shirt and back up at Sam.

“Yeah, maybe. So was there something else or…” Sam asked as she slowly slipped her hand out of Flip’s larger one, letting his jab roll off of her.

“I had a thought,” Flip began and Sam raised one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows in skeptical surprise. “Don’t say it.”

“Say what?” Sam stated fighting a smile while holding her hands up in surrender.

“Do you think our guy is some kind of zealot? He seems to have a pattern. Young women, Catholic dump sites.”

“What makes you think it’s a he?”

“I was just generalizing, Fisher. Cut me some slack. And do you really think a woman would be crazy enough to do all this?”

“That sounds awfully close minded detective. Anything is possible.”

“Fine. Do you think our  _ killer _ is some sort of zealot? Happy?”

Sam smirks.

“Didn’t take you for the type that wanted to make me happy, but okay, for the sake of argument, yes. Also, I am inclined to agree, whomever this person is--”

“Who says it’s a person?”

“Now you’re just being an asshole,” Sam snipes, turning and walking towards her office with Flip lumbering closely behind.

“Just going with my gift,  _ sweetheart _ .”

Sam hums non-committedly, pouring a cup of coffee from the fresh pot in her office, and passing it to Flip.

“We all have one I suppose and yours is uniquely exceptional, Zimmerman. Well done.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? Two chapters in one day you say? Miracles do happen!
> 
> Mind the tags folks...this chapter's a heavy one.

 

_ Easter Weekend 1979  _

Flip poked at the bowl of jelly beans left on his desk. The station’s receptionist always brought treats around the holidays, leaving little goodies on each of the detectives’ desks in hopes of cheering up the ones staffed on those days. Flip never had the heart to tell her that he couldn’t care less for Easter, or Christmas, or any of the other holidays he spent working.  Free food was free food and explaining to the sweet older woman that even if it was Passover or Hanukkah that he still would be here either way, would only break her heart.        

The Easter holiday had left the station nearly empty, working on a skeleton crew.  A few beat cops lingered around the coffee pot. The nearby police radio that usually was full of chatter reduced to dull static. Glancing at the clock, Flip sighed as he leaned back in his chair, taking the bowl with him and setting it upon his lap as he kicked his boots up onto his desk.  

Popping a lone black licorice candy into his mouth, he sucked on it, savoring the sharp flavor. 

“Leave it to you to like the disgusting ones,” Sam commented, stopping at the edge of Flip’s desk.   

“Shouldn’t you be on an egg hunt or something today?”

“Mom’s ham and potatoes are good, but not worth the drama that comes along with the meal. Instant heartburn.” 

Flip nodded, in hopes of avoiding any conversation that would lead to why he was here today.  Even with his seniority, he just let most believe he didn’t mind picking up some extra hours so others could have the time off. In reality, Flip would rather be at work anyways.  There was nothing ever good on television and drinking Coors in his underwear mid-afternoon on a Sunday held little appeal to him.  

“Are you just going to sit there and eat candy all afternoon or shall we get to these cases?” Sam asked, tapping at the folders in her arms with the tips of her fingertips. 

Swinging his legs off the desk, Flip righted himself in his chair.  Setting the glass bowl onto his desk, he took a sudden interest in finding any remaining black jelly beans hiding among the brightly colored candy.

Slamming the case files down onto the desk, causing Flip to sit up with start, Sam glared at the object of her sudden ire.      

“Really, Zimmerman?” Sam questioned cooly. 

“It’s a holiday for Christ’s sake.  Nothin’ ever happens around here. Just get some coffee and enjoy the time and a half.”  

“We’ve got three dead girls.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Flip replied.  It ate at him that someone was still out there praying upon women, but he dared not show it in front of Sam.  “Anything new from the last autopsy?” 

“You were there,” Sam stated calmly, flipping open the first case file onto Flip’s desk.  Leaning over slightly too far, Flip caught a glance down the front of her blouse. The quick glimpse of the soft curves her breasts peeking out from dark pink lace made Flip scoot his chair closer into his desk. The sudden urge to hide his lower half beneath it as he tried to focus on the paperwork presented to him.  

Sam rattled off various similarities of the cases, ones that Flip had already noticed.  The missing nails, the similar ages, the manner in which the women’s bodies were found. He feigned interest, his mind wandering in hopes that Sam would lean forward again.  

Feeling his eyes on her, Sam couldn’t help but poke the bear. Having a bit of fun on a slow Sunday never hurt anyone, right?

“See something you like, detective?” Sam cooed as she leaned over the desk just a touch more, letting her blouse gape.

Flip’s eyes snapped to hers just as Sam popped a red jellybean into her mouth and bit down. He swallowed thickly at her words, the tips of his ears turning pink at having been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

“Um...I...uh,” Flip stammered.

“The files Zimmerman. I’m talking about the case files.”

“Fisher! Zimmerman!  Hate to break up the holiday festivities over there, but dispatch just got a call.  Double homicide.” Chief Bridges announced as he crossed the bullpen towards Flip’s desk.  

“Fuck,” Flip muttered leaning back in his chair as he carded his hands through his hair.  The small part of him that had hoped whoever was behind this was done flying right out the window.  

Sam nodded as she began collecting the files from Flip’s desk.  

“Do we have a location?” 

“Out off of I-25. The abandoned Saint Mary’s Cathedral.” 

“Alright,” Sam agreed, making her way back down the hall to her own desk to deposit the folders before opening the bottom drawer for her purse. Popping back out of her office, Sam swung the bag over her shoulder, looking in Flip’s direction.  He was already pulling on his worn jacket, tucking his .22 into his shoulder holster. So much for a peaceful holiday.  

***

Pulling up to the area, there was little to note it as a crime scene. While most churches were packed for the holiday, the cathedral was silent, long forgotten and left to waste away. Normally there had been strings of yellow  _ DO NOT CROSS  _ tape strung between whatever objects that would hold it and at least two or three police cars already waiting.  The bare bones holiday staff had left the area clear.     

Throwing the Bronco into park, Sam was already reaching for her bag as she clicked the keys off in the ignition, killing the engine.  Jumping from the car, she didn’t bother waiting for Flip to finish his cigarette. Flicking what was left out the window, Flip cranked the glass up before slamming the door behind him to catch up to the eager M.E.  He didn’t even have a moment to warn Sam that her hasty movements were going to wreak havoc on her starter. Not that he would complain if she called on him for a jump start.  

Two bodies lay out before them on the church steps, little done to hide them. A single lily had been carefully placed between their stiffened fingers, the pure white blooms a stark contrast to the mulled and lifeless skin. Fronds of palm surrounded the women, carefully arranged in a circle. Upon each of their foreheads, a darkened mark in the sign of the cross had been carefully applied.

Sam rooted around in her bag, locating her notepad and pen.  Flip caught up to her, glancing at the bodies laid out before them on the ground.  He instantly recognized one, a young girl in her late 20s. The small tattoo on her upper shoulder blade was one that was known around the station well.           

“I used to pick her up back in the day when I was on beat patrol,” Flip remarked. “Always on prostitution charges out by the truck stop we passed on the way out here.” 

Sam jotted down the bit of information before looking back down at the two bodies. 

“They look alike.” 

Flip ran his hand over his jawline, rubbing against the days worth of scruff that had begun to stubble his cheeks.  He was never able to grow a full beard, no matter how hard he tried. The most he got was a full chin and dirt lip, his cheeks patchy and sad looking, which he normally just trimmed down to keep himself looking somewhat presentable. The recent case load had kept him from tending to anything more than the basic showering and returning to work. 

Kneeling down next to the victims, Flip looked over each woman’s body.  Both of their necks were ringed with deep purple bruises, eyes wide from the force applied to steal the final breath from them, forever frozen in shock and horror. The tips of their pinkies were missing, not only just the nail, but the entire end cut clean at the knuckle in a precise fashion. Whoever this killer was, they thrived most on the final display of their victims. If anything, the rituals of the dumping ground was more thought out than the killings themselves. The manners of death were messy, incomplete and rushed yet they were methodical in the smallest of details.    

Noticing a small bulge in the front pocket of one of the victims jeans, Flip sucked in a deep breath as he reached forward, dipping his fingertips in and pulling free a small card from the denim fabric. Studying it, it was a student I.D. card from Pikes’ Peak Community College.  Passing it towards Sam, she willingly took the item from Flip. 

“Could you radio this in?”

Sam studied the card for a moment, taking in the young woman’s photograph. She was smiling, excited, and full of life to start something new.  It hardly matched the woman who lay before them now.  

Making her way back to her Bronco, Sam radioed in the girl’s name and any further information she could gather from the card to the station. Dispatch crackled back as Sam scribbled down the details of her last known address in her notepad.    

“The sinner and the saint,” Sam announced as she approached Flip, who had stepped back from the scene, a limp cigarette hanging from his lips. 

“Hm?” he asked, grabbing at the paper before taking a long drag. 

“You said the one was out turning tricks. Her sister...her records came up clean. Good girl. Great student, never caused trouble.”

“Whoever’s behind this,” Flip paused. “They’re either one sick twisted fuck or had a shit show of a childhood.”

“Or both,” Sam chimed in.

_ 1957 _

Walking in the kitchen, Vincent leaned against the doorway, watching as his mother stirred a pot on the stove. She was making soup, the aroma of broth heavy in the air.  His stomach growled at the scent, wishing she would give him even a small taste, maybe even a bit of carrot or potato. He’d been so good lately, fasting to absolve his sins, just like she’d told him to.  

“Mama?”  The small boy questioned, his voice timid as he stepped closer to his mother. 

“What do you want?” The woman spat back, turning from the stove to face her son.  

“Can? Can I?” Vincent sputtered, so afraid to ask for anything. The wooden spoon she held in her hand dripped broth onto the floor.  Part of him wanted to drop to his knees and lick the little droplets, still warm, from the linoleum.  

“Can you what, boy?” She hissed, grabbing Vincent by the arm, dragging him towards her. “Can’t even use your words.  How can you learn to ask for forgiveness from our Lord if you can’t even speak properly?”  

Shoving the small boy away from her, his body bounced against the cabinets before falling towards the floor. Vincent backed against the wall, cowering in the corner. How stupid of him to even dare ask.  Fasting was the way to the Lord’s forgiveness, so his mother said, and he was a wretched creature for turning against the Lord.  

Tears welling in his eyes, Vincent pulled his knees to his chest.  

“I’m sorry, Mama. I’m so sorry.”

Stepping closer, his mother cornered the boy, raising the wooden spoon to bring it down against his arm with a loud twack.  

“How  _ dare _ you question me.  How  _ dare _ you question our Lord and Savior.”  

Vincent curled himself as tightly as possible, fearing the next blow, tears staining his cheeks.  Scrunching his eyes closed, he stayed silent as he felt another blow rein down upon him, the wood making contact with his skin, burning as it connected again.  

“Do you know the hell I went through for you?” His mother screamed, hitting him again.  “A home for unwed mothers? Birthing a son given to me by a man forcing himself on me?”  

Vincent shook his head, his tears dripping from his chin onto his shirt. 

Far too young to understand his mother’s rape, her virginity taken from her violently, resulting in her being sent away to give birth to him before returning home empty handed. His grandmother--may her soul rest in peace--returned for him, taking him into her arms, and out of the system before he could be adopted out.  She had protected him, kept him safe until her passing. She had left nothing to his mother, damning her to a life of raising a child in a world that looked down unkindly on unwed mothers and mixed race children. Donating her small estate to the church left his mother penniless and furious. Believing she was a woman of the Lord, Vincent’s mother held her head high, vowing to cleanse her son of the sins he was born into.  

“Get up, you beastly miscreant.” Vincent’s mother said as she tossed the spoon towards the stove, turning off the burner.  Grabbing the boy’s arm, she hauled him up from the floor, pushing him towards the bathroom.  

Shutting the door behind her, Vincent stood in the middle of the room, cradling his arms, trying to sooth away the welts that were already littering his flesh. His mother sat on the edge of the bathtub, plugging the drain, and switching on the tap.  

The water was always too hot, steam rising, and filling the room. Vincent tried to choke back another round of tears that threatened to fall, his eyes stinging as his mother grabbed his shirt, yanking it over his head.  

“Come on,” she instructed. “Jesus doesn’t have time for you to dawdle.” 

In an instant, Vincent found himself in the tub, his skin burning from the water. His mother took a washcloth, lathering it up with a bar of Ivory soap, before pressing it hard against his back. 

“Filthy dirty boy,” she mumbled, dragging the cloth against him in rough circles. “Why won’t you get clean?” 

Pressing his forehead to his knees, Vincent vowed not to cry again, his tears only made her angry.

“You're hurting me, Mama.”

“But you’re dirty, Vincent. You  _ must _ get clean.”  

"Repeat after me…” his mother began, dragging the washcloth against him. “Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin."   


Shaking his head, Vincent was unsure. The Bible used too many big words, ones he didn’t quite understand, but if his mother said them, then they must be right, he concluded. God wouldn’t lie. The pressure of his mother’s hand forced him to repeat back the words, only with the slightest falter.    

“If we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. Purify me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.”

Pushing against the top of his head, Vincent slipped beneath the water, his mother holding him there for a second before letting him go.  Breaking free, he sat up, sputtering and spitting water, wiping it away from his eyes to see again. He heard the plug being pulled, the water rushing from around him down the drain. Lightheaded, he felt his mother pick him up from the tub, wrapping him in a towel as she dried him off.  

“Get dressed and then bedtime,” she instructed, her voice softer than before.  

Dressed in a pair of striped pajamas, Vincent knelt down beside his bed, clasping his hands in front of him, resting his elbows against the mattress. He felt his mother standing behind him, her hand running over the top of his head.  

“Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven,” Vincent began, the opening words to the prayer ingrained in his mind from Sunday mass. “Give us this day our daily bread...” Vincent felt the tip of his mother’s switch against his back. “...and forgive us our tres-tres-trespasses…” Vincent stuttered, his mind scrambling for the right words before his mother could raise the switch and bring it down against him. 

“You know what comes next,” his mother scolded. 

“And lead us not into temptation,” Vincent tried, missing a line of the prayer. The switch meeting his back rang out with a loud thwack, the small boy wincing in pain.

"I don't like having to do this Vincent, but you  _ must _ learn.” 

“I’m trying Mama, I really am,” Vincent pleaded, righting himself again.  

“If you were, you wouldn’t be stumbling. God’s listening. Get it right.”

“Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,” Vincent finished, his fingers loosening from one another to make the sign of the cross.   

“That’s my boy,” his mother chided, lowering the switch to her side as Vincent rose from his knees.  

Pulling back the covers, she let the boy crawl beneath them, resting his head against the pillows before tucking him in.  

“Mama?”  Vincent asked, looking up at the woman standing over him. “God forgives all sins, right?”

“Only if you confess them and pray for his forgiveness.”  

“Even the really bad ones?”

His mother nodded.  

“I’m going to make you real proud one day.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand another. :D

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/160140480@N02/40398926003/in/dateposted-public/)

 

_April 1979_  

“How are Flip and Sam?” Patrice asked, tilting her head back to look over the edge of the couch as Ron entered the living room. Ron chuckled as he set his keys down and removed his coat, tossing it against the back of the couch. 

“Well, he’s not wearing her cup of coffee across his shirt today, so I guess you can say they’re doin’ alright.”

Leaning forward, Patrice switched the television off as Ron took a seat next to her, the couch cushions dipping with his weight. 

“That guy needs to get out more,” Patrice said as she settled back on the couch, letting Ron’s arm fall across her shoulders.  

“It’s Thursday.”

Patrice gave him a questioning look, not quite catching on to what Ron was getting at.   

“Baby, everyone at the station knows not to bother Zimmerman on a Thursday,” Ron explained. “ _M*A*S*H_ is on at seven and it better be something real damn important if you call him during that.”

Shaking her head, Patrice looked over at Ron. “Yeah, he _really_ needs to get out more. Between the cases and Sam, that man is probably about to lose his damn mind. I was thinking we could go down to the Red Lantern tonight, have a couple of drinks. It’d be nice if Flip came along.”

“Alright, fine,” Ron agreed. “But if he rings my neck for not getting his turkey TV dinner and weekly dose of Hawkeye Pierce tonight, I’m blamin’ you.”

***

Walking into the bar, Flip looked around the room, spotting Patrice and Ron at a table towards the back. The Red Lantern was surprisingly busy for a Thursday, music pumping through the room, making for a noisy scene.  A scene he would usually avoid. The station was loud enough for Flip on a daily basis, and he usually sought solitude when he was off the clock. He was a simple man, relishing in his routine, or at least as much of one as law enforcement would allow. Making his way towards the bar, he ordered his usual: a tall Coors pint.  The very drink he should be enjoying in front of his own television, in the comfort of his own apartment. The bartender wasted no time pouring his beverage, passing it over to Flip as he set a fiver down on the bar top.  

“Keep the change,” Flip said quickly before sipping the foam from the top of his beer, making room in the glass so he wouldn’t spill a drop on the way to the table.   

“Well, well, look who decided to get out of his apartment for once,” Ron tipped his glass in Flip’s direction as he sat down.  

“Dragging me out is more like it,” Flip uttered flatly as he slid into the booth. “I’m gonna have to hang around the file room tomorrow just to get filled in by Madison on what I’m missing tonight.” 

“Man, I don’t know how you watch that shit,” Ron grumbled. “It’s like a damn soap opera.” 

The group quickly fell into easy conversation, Flip and Ron occasionally ribbing each other over something or another, causing Patrice to roll her eyes as she laughed at the both of them.  Ever since Flip moved to Homicide, he and Ron hadn’t spent much time together. With different hours and desks on separate floors, Flip missed his former partner. He knew it was good to get out every once in awhile, have a normal social life, something that he sorely lacked. Trying to think of the last time he was actually at the Red Lantern, he realized it had been nearly a year. Ron had dragged him out after his most recent promotion, insisting that he would buy him a couple of drinks to celebrate. A couple turned into many and the story of Flip dancing his way around the bar to Dolly Parton's _Jolene_ was still told at that station to any new rookie that came in.  

“I need a refill,” Patrice shook her glass of melting ice cubes.   

“I got you,” Ron moved to get up, reaching to take Patrice’s glass from her, only to be met with a playful smile. 

“Don’t worry about it. I need the ladies’ room first anyways. Be right back.”

Stepping up to the bar, Patrice waited as the bartender mixed a drink for another customer.  

“You know if you take some money out, they’ll get to ya faster.”

Patrice jumped, startled at the man that seemed to appear out of thin air that was now standing next to her, having been lost in her own thoughts waiting on service.  

“I actually heard that just makes them ignore you more,” she quipped.  

“How about I just buy that drink for you? Two birds, one stone.”

Patrice was hesitant, looking down the bar, wishing the bartender would just hurry up and get over to her. Something about this guy stirred her in the wrong way, the way he encroached in on her space, pushing himself as close as he could against her, using the crowd around them as an excuse. The strange vibe coming off of him made her stomach twist in a knot, causing her to debate internally if she even really needed another drink. Ron wouldn’t protest if she just stole stips of his until the glass was empty.   

“I can get it myself, thanks.”  

“At least let me get you a shot to go with that next round? The name's Vince by the way,” he offered smoothly.  

He was standing too close now, any normal amount of acceptable personal space completely gone. Patrice wished the people behind her would just go away, give her even an inch of room to step back. Reaching to brush his hand against her arm, she flinched at his touch.  She felt trapped, violated, her inner fight or flight response in her telling to run, yet she stood her ground. She wasn’t about to let some guy make her feel this way.     

Narrowing her eyes, she stared Vince down. “A. I didn’t ask for your name and B. I said I’m good, thanks. Why don’t you just worry about refilling your own glass and I’ll do the same?”     

Vince laughed, a low wicked sound that made Patrice’s stomach twist even more. 

“I like that you’ve got a little kick to ya sweetheart.” 

“What part of _no_ didn’t you understand?” Patrice bit back firmly. 

“Alright, alright.” Throwing his hands up in defeat,  Vince stepped back. “No need to get defensive on a brother.  I’m just tryin’ to be nice.”

Patrice breathed a sigh of relief as the man turned and disappeared into the crowd. He headed towards the exit, Patrice watching him as he slipped out the door and into the night. 

“What can I get you?” The bartender asked, leaning against the counter.  

“Two Jack and gingers and a Coors draft,” Patrice rattled off the entire table’s order. Even if Flip and Ron didn’t need another drink and Vince seemed to be gone for now, she wasn’t about to risk coming back up to order again. 

“Here, let me give you a hand,” Ron offered as Patrice arrived back at their table minus one flannel flocked detective, her hands ladened with drinks. “Flip’s hittin’ the head he’ll be back in just... a--oh shit.” Ron trailed off. 

“What?” Patrice asked with a quizzical look on her face as she followed Ron’s line of sight.

“That’s Sam and if I had to guess she’s on a _date_.”

“Wait...Flip’s Sam?”

“The very same.”

“Oh shhhhh--”

“Thanks Patrice you shouldn’t have,” Flip interjected. “What are you two starin’ at?” the detective questioned as he took a long sip of his beer and gazed over in the same direction his friends were. Flip’s face fell immediately when his eyes locked onto Sam and some douche in a cheap suit seated a few tables over.

***

“So what did you say you do again, Sammy?” the gentleman in the polyester suit asked as he sat down at the table with their drinks.

“I’m the Medical Examiner for the Colorado Springs Police Department,” Sam said proudly, still cringing from her date using a nickname she loathed, but glad he’d at least gotten her the Tom Collins she’d asked for. 

“Oh and here I thought  a nice girl like you would be a secretary. Not getting your hands dirty.”

“Pardon?” Sam could already feel her blood starting to boil. How dare this ass hat suggest that she should be a secretary. There was absolutely nothing wrong with that line of work, but it wasn’t the only career path for a woman. Sam had lost count of how many times she’d had this very conversation with her mother. _Boy, would she love this guy_ she thought, internally rolling her eyes.

“Although all those guys at the station must be lucky to have such a good looking lady around. Gives them a little treat,” he added with a wink. “I just hope my girl isn’t _too_ friendly with the boys.”

“I hope you aren’t you suggesting that I’m loose?”

“Well...I--”

“I think this is about to be an excellent teaching opportunity for you, Perry.”

“It’s Barry actual--” Sam held her hand up to silence her date.

“Let me perfectly clear on something. Just because I am a _woman_ doesn’t mean that I can’t have a career where, how did you phrase it, oh yes, ‘get my hands dirty.’ I've worked _very_ hard to get where I am today and I did it with my legs closed!” Sam seethed.

“Another cop whore who got a fancy job title,” Barry muttered. 

“What did you just say?”

“Sweetheart, if you think I’m going to buy that you’ve gotten to where you are with your legs closed, you must think I’m daft. You’ve probably warmed the bed of every cop in this city by now,” Barry snarked. Sam rose from her seat gracefully as Barry stood along with her. “You’re nothing more than a pretty face with a nice rack. Don’t let what they tell you after they fuck you go to your head.”

“Well, this has been _very_ illuminating, but I think I’m going to call it an evening.” Sam’s voice dripped with disdain. It was taking everything she had not to deck the guy right then and there after his little speech.

“You should consider wearing a warning label that reads _Caution, Frigid Bitch_.”

At that moment, Sam’s precarious resolve crumbled, and she found her fist connecting squarely with Barry’s jaw; sending him soaring back into an empty table.

Ron and Patrice had watched the whole exchange between Sam and her companion with humorous fascination.

“It’s a shame Flip didn’t stick around for that,” Patrice chuckled and Ron let out a long guttural laugh.

“I think that guy would be in the hospital right now if he had.”

*** 

Sam dropped her keys into the bowl on the end table by the door as she trudged through the entryway of her apartment; flinging off her heels as she went, not caring where they landed. Another botched date. _What was his name again? Perry? No. Or was it Gary?_ It really didn’t matter what his name was because Sam knew there was no way in hell she was going out with him again. That would teach her to agree to a date from a guy who rammed his cart into hers in the produce aisle at the local Safeway.

Plopping down on her couch in defeat, resigned to a life as a lonely miserable workaholic, Sam opened her notepad she had sitting on the coffee table.  It wasn’t ideal bringing her work home with her, but these cases kept piling higher and higher, and she couldn’t shut off her brain. The constant niggling anytime she would try and relax or sleep, much like now. Sam looked at her watch and groaned; it was almost midnight. With the thought that there was no sense in loitering around an empty apartment firmly planted in her mind, she went and threw on her favorite pair of bell bottoms and crop top sweater before heading back over to the station.

It was eerily quiet on the fourth floor of the police station. Bridges had a skeleton crew working the third shift down on the first floor which would keep Sam from being disturbed. She lazily dropped down into Flip’s desk chair gazing at the murder board in front of her. _What was the connection_? It was clear that whoever this guy was he was certifiably nuts and needed to be thrown down a deep dark hole.

Sam leaned down next to Flip’s desk, clicking the lock as she pulled the bottom drawer open in search of a pad of paper. _Of course it’s a mess_ Sam thought to herself as she began to rifle through the junk. She was determined to find what she was looking for. Pushing aside old papers and Flip’s snack stash, she spotted a bottle of amber liquid. Grabbing hold of the neck and removing it from the drawer, she felt triumphant. “Well what do we have here?” Sam grinned. If the boys around this station could have a nip or two while they worked, so could she. 

With a quick stop at the coffee station for a styrofoam cup, Sam returned to her “favorite” detective’s desk, falling back down into his chair before unscrewing the bottle to pour herself a generous portion. Taking a long sip, she felt her nerves mellow as the Scotch burned down her throat. Clearly Flip wasn’t one to spend the extra few dollars for anything palatable, but it would do.

Two hearty cupfuls of Scotch later, Sam was no closer to finding a connection between all of the murders. _Think, Fisher, think!_  

“God I would kill for some solid KUSH right now,” the M.E. grumbled to a bullpen completely devoid of law enforcement. 

In her addled state a brilliant idea struck. Reaching into her leather bag she pulled out her key ring that held the solution to her current predicament. 

The evidence locker currently housed 20 pounds of grade A hash that Wheaton and Mulaney had seized at a routine traffic stop. 

“Would you look at that, they even logged the rolling papers,” Sam whispered. “Thanks boys.”

After rolling herself a proper fatty, Sam dug around in Flip’s desk in search of a lighter or at the very least matches. _Bingo!_ _Matches it is. Skinflint Flip strikes again._ _At least he sprung for a radio._ Sam thought as she reached over to tune in to her preferred rock station--elated to hear the DJ introing Pink Floyd’s _Money_ \--she lit the joint and took a long drag.

***

Flip pressed his fingers together at the bridge of his nose, letting out a long sigh. Throwing the case file onto his coffee table, he sat back on his couch completely frustrated. The record player in the corner of his living room emanated a low hum, the vinyl long finished.  As if the B side to Zeppelin would somehow help him solve all of this.  

Sleep was something that wasn’t going to come to him tonight. He learned early on in his career that a full eight hours of rest was something that would never happen again, so long as he was employed in law enforcement. Quick naps and the rare day off spent entirely in bed coupled with copious amounts of coffee was what sustained him.  He had been racking his brain for hours for any sort of clue, something that would piece all of it together, and coming up with nothing. He felt as though the walls of his tiny apartment were closing in on him. Needing to clear his head, Flip got up, switching off the record player before reaching for his coat, checking that his keys were in his pocket. 

Winding through the pitch black backroads, Flip soon found himself heading towards the station, as if his truck was on autopilot to always end up there. At least it was quiet, and he had a bottle of Scotch tucked away in his desk drawer that might help him focus on something...anything...to get him to come up with some answers.

Flip traipsed up the stairs to the fourth floor, feet pounding down heavily on each step, when his ears picked up a familiar bass riff. 

“Who the hell is listening to Floyd in the bullpen at this hour?”

The room was filled with a thick cloud of haze, the heavy beat blasting through the room. Flip coughed, he hadn’t smelled that familiar earthy skunk since high school. They all had keys to the evidence room, but the constant threat of a random drug test from Chief Bridges kept only but the brave from ever sneaking anything from it.

He never thought Sam would have been one of them. Yet there she was, sitting at his desk, feet up on his things, taking a long drag.  Blowing smoke up towards the ceiling in a long exhale, her body bobbed and weaved in time to the music in  _his_ chair.  

“What the fuck, Fisher?” 

“Hey, hey detective!  Pull up a seat.”

“Is that my Scotch?” Flip asked, pointing to the cup on his desk.  He could smell it on her from where he stood.  

“Maaaayyybeee,” Sam singsonged. “What are you going to do? Arrest me?”  she questioned, holding her wrists out in mock surrender.  

“For the pot, I technically could.”  

“You wouldn’t,” Sam feigned playfully. “Or maybe you should,” she added with a wink. 

“Christ, Sam. How much did you drink?” 

“Does it matter?” Sam asked as she sidled over to Flip, swinging her hips seductively.

Flip froze in place as Sam approached him, leaning close, her lips nearly touching his. 

“Well, Detective,” Sam hummed "I've seen what's under all that flannel and I'd like to see it again if you don't mind," the M.E. added as she traced her hand up Flip’s arm. 

"I see how it is Fisher...you only want me to scratch that itch if you're plowed or high as shit or in this case both. I think you've had a little too much party and not enough sleep," Flip reprimanded as he pulled away from her touch.  

"Oh Phillip...don't be like that. I've felt your eyes on my _assets_. Don't go all Boy Scout on me now."

“Phillip?  Since when…” Flip’s words fell short as Sam grabbed onto his shirt, her hands running over his flannel covered chest with a sly smile on her face. Nipping at his neck, Flip struggled to repress a moan, trying his hardest to keep his hands at his sides, clenching his fingers into tight fists. If she was sober this would be ending very differently. He felt Sam’s hand trace lower, over his belt and across the front of his jeans. His body was betraying him, half hard already just from her touch.  

“Mmmmm...is it true what they say about men with big feet?” Sam giggled.

Grasping Sam’s wrist, Flip stilled her movements against him. 

“That’s enough, Fisher.” 

Sam looked surprised, her glassy eyes looking at Flip, a rare silence coming from her. Picking her up, he fully expected a protest, a ‘put me down you grizzly mountain man _’_ , but was met with odd complacency. 

Carefully Flip set Sam down on the office couch he spent so many days taking naps on. Grabbing an afghan from the back of the sofa, he unfolded it, carefully draping it over Sam. Flip swore he heard a mumbled _thank you_ as she rolled to her side, immediately drifting off to sleep. He stepped back, watching her for a moment to make sure she was okay. Judging by her snores, Sam was fast asleep, any memory of what occurred between them would likely be gone by morning. Flip shut off the light, closing the door behind him. He could still feel the dull ache in his jeans, a nagging throb he knew he needed to take care of that wouldn’t wait until he got home. Knowing the station was empty, he took the stairs, two at a time, heading straight to the locker room.  

Leaning back against the wall, Flip unzipped his jeans, taking his cock out into his hand.  Closing his fist around himself, he began to pump, hissing at finally having the contact he needed.  He closed his eyes, working himself at a steady pace. Normally, he would do this at home, on his couch, to one of the few dirty magazines he had picked up from the truck stop out on I-25.  It usually didn’t take much, a couple of pictures of some nameless girl with big tits laying out on a glossy page to find his release. Gone were those images in his mind now, his grip growing tighter, his movements quicker, as he pictured a woman with long brown hair, who drove an obnoxiously yellow Bronco, and quipped back smartass replies as fast as he dished them out. He thought about how Sam’s lips felt against his neck, how her teeth nipped and sucked against his skin, leaving marks under the chain of his necklace. Under any other circumstance, he would have bent her over his desk and fucked her until she was screaming his name, begging for release. 

“Fuck,” Flip hissed, his pace on himself relentless as he felt his stomach grow tighter, his mind racing with his own conjured fantasy. How he’d position himself between her legs, tearing that expensive looking sweater of hers off. He pictured Sam’s breasts bouncing up and down as he pounded into her, telling her ‘ _what a good girl you are for taking me like this’_ and _‘goddamn you feel so fucking good.’_ Case reports be damned, he would lean her back against the desk, driving deep into her until she came around his cock. The very mental picture of it had Flip nearly rubbing himself raw, his hand working at a fast and furious clip as he imagined Sam clenching around him, crying out as she soaked the desk beneath her. Sweat coated his brow as he felt his own release rip through him, spilling into own his hand. He felt almost lightheaded as reality came crashing back down around him: alone in a dingy police station bathroom with a sticky palm in the middle of the night. 

Catching his breath, Flip stood, re-buckling his pants as he made his way to the sink to rinse his hands.  He took in his reflection in the mirror, studying the man that stared back. Deep, dark circles had set in under his eyes, a feature that was always there, yet over the past months had only worsened.  He thought about if Bill hadn’t retired, if these cases would have been different, somehow easier to manage. If things wouldn’t have been so complicated if she hadn’t sped into Colorado Springs to turn everything upside down. Reaching for a paper towel, Flip dried his hands, balling up the stiff paper and shooting it like a free throw towards the trash bin. 

Flip slowed as he passed the office, cracking the door open just wide enough to let a narrow strip of light from the overhead hallway fluorescents in to illuminate the darkened room. Sam was still asleep, wrapped tightly in the blanket, curled into the cushions of the couch.  At some point, her heels had fallen off her feet, lying discarded on the floor next to her. Assured that she would be fine, even if she was going to have one hell of a headache in the morning, Flip closed the door again.  

Making his way to Sam’s desk, Flip pulled up her rolling chair and flicked on the light. Her desk was an organized chaos of folders and paperwork, ranging from official reports to hand jotted notes on napkins and scraps of paper, tossed about in a jumble. Picking up a folder as he sat down, Flip opened it, flicking through the papers with a sigh. They were no closer to solving this as they were yesterday, it had only gotten worse. It was going to be a long night. 

***

Sam startled awake as her ears were met with a loud _clink_ of a glass being set down on the table beside where she’d slept in a twisted heap.

“You’re gonna need that,” Flip grimaced as he gestured to the pill bottle and glass of fizzing liquid.

“What is that?” Sam replied groggily as she pushed herself into a sitting position on the tweed sofa, pulling off the afghan.

“Aspirin and antacid.”

“Well aren’t you just the picture of sunshine. Who pissed in your Cheerios?”

“You look like hell.”

“Gee... _thanks_. Nothing that coffee, concealer, and a whiff of smelling salts won’t fix.” Sam shrugged.

“Awfully flippant for someone who could be subjected to a random drug test.”

“Tell me Zimmerman. What’s got you in such a bad mood, huh? The fact that I drank half your Scotch, took weed from the evidence locker or are you just mad at yourself because you didn’t take me up on my offer?” 

Flip shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking anywhere but at Sam.

“Don’t tell me you actually thought that half a bottle of cheap booze and subpar pot would make me forget.” 

Flip cleared his throat uncomfortably. 

“Oh wow...you did,” Sam chuckled as she stood perilously close to him. “Next time you don’t want my hands on you, I suggest you cuff me.” Sam started to walk past, but Flip caught her wrist. “Uh-uh. That ship has sailed _Boy Scout_. No merit badges for you.”  

Flip released a low feral growl in reply. 

“Thanks for the aspirin, _Phillip_.”


	6. Chapter 6

 

_ May 1979  _

“Hey man,” Ron greeted, sidling up to Flip’s desk. “Feel a burger?”

Flip stubs out the last of his cigarette in the ashtray as he reaches for another case file, his desk already littered with stacks of papers. 

“I can’t. I’ve got way too much shit to wade through.”

“I wasn’t asking, Zimmerman.”

Flip tosses the manila folder onto his desk. 

“You aren’t going to take no for an answer are you?” 

“Nope.”

Sitting down outside Drifter’s, Ron takes a sip of his milkshake as Flip reaches for a burger from the tray. Pulling back the wrapper, he takes a large bite, swallowing heartily. 

“At least chew your food.  When’s the last time you’ve had something that wasn’t coffee?” 

“Louise’s tuna noodle surprise?”

“That was five months ago!”

Ron shakes his head as he pops a few fries into his mouth.  “You really need to take better care of yourself.” 

Flip shrugs.

“Yeah, I guess. It’s not like I’ve got anyone to impress.”

Ron smirks.

“Uh huh. You sure about that, Flip?”

Flip looks up at Ron quizzically, pausing mid chew.

“And what is that supposed to mean exactly?”

“You sure a certain leggy brunette with a mouth and a Ph. D. hasn’t caught your eye?”

Flip shifts his weight on the picnic table bench, clearing his throat uncomfortably.  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Stallworth.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Flip, I’ve seen the way you look at her. You’ve been hard up for that woman since she blew into the precinct.”

“What does it even matter? She’s seein’ somebody else, right? Some Stella in a polyester suit.”

Ron guffaws.

“You’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, Zimmerman and yet you got all hot under the collar, stormin’ out at the first sign of seein’ her with another man. Gotta say I’m a little disappointed, but let me let you in on a little secret about Sam’s “date”.”

“Lemme guess, they’ve already gotta house with a white picket fence picked out?” Flip replies dryly before taking a sip of his Coke.

“She punched him square in the face, actually.”

Flip sputters on his drink.

“What?!”

“Yeah, sent his ass flyin’ into a table.”

“What the fuck did he say to her?” Flip asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise, wiping droplets of Coke from his goatee.

“Something about the only reason she had her job was because she spread her legs for every cop in the county.” 

“Shit.” Flip shook his head in disbelief. If that guy even knew the first thing about Sam, or had any ounce of decency in him, he would have never made that assumption. No wonder she was such a mess that night. Flip should’ve sensed that something was wrong when he’d found Sam in such a state and now he felt like an ass. That woman had him all sorts of twisted to where he didn’t know which way was up anymore and God help him, he liked it.

*******

“Need a top off, honey?” 

Vince looks over at the waitress, coffee pot in hand at the edge of his table, annoyed that she hadn’t seemed to leave him alone since he first sat down in the cracked and worn vinyl booth.  

“I’m fine, thanks.” Picking up the latest edition of  _ The Gazette _ , he unfolds the paper, the headline blazoned across the front page catching his eye.

**_LOCAL DETECTIVE PARTNERS WITH NEWLY APPOINTED_ ** **_  
_ ** **_M.E. TO HELP SOLVE STRING OF GRIZZLY MURDERS_ **

Vince studies the picture, a black and white photo of a dark haired woman, notepad in hand standing beside a man dressed like a lumberjack. He scans the article, noting that the two had little to go on, aside from wild speculations and half formed theories. Letting out a quiet chuckle to himself, Vince folds the newspaper, setting it aside. 

“Another slice?” the waitress pointes to Vince’s empty plate, a smear of cherry pie filling and a few crumbs marring the chipped white plate.

“No thank you,” Vincent replies with a hint of annoyance. 

“Think they’ll figure it out?”

Vincent internally groans at the waitress’ persistent chatter and attempts at small talk, but managing to plaster on a smile.

“Dunno. Doesn’t sound like they’ve got a whole lot to go on.”

“Well I sure hope they do. Whomever this sick bastard is that’s behind all this deserves to burn in hell.” 

Vincent’s face falls.

“Judge not lest ye be judged.”

The waitress gives Vincent an odd look, shifting uncomfortably.

“I’ll just get you your check.”

“You do that.”

***

Sam’s rented bungalow was a cheerful yellow, trimmed in white around the windows. Pots full of flowers dotted the front porch of the house, spilling over with purple and pink blooms.  A neatly manicured lawn surrounded a large maple tree in the front yard. It was a welcoming little house, one that was inviting and warm.

Inside, the living room was a mismatch of basic furniture: a couch, table and two wingback chairs, all things Sam had been given by her mother before the move. She had hung a few pictures on the walls, illustrations of wildflowers she had bought at a street fair in Denver. She had planned on decorating more, never getting around to it once work went into overdrive immediately after her move.

Fluffing the last of the throw pillows on the couch, Sam hears the slam of a car door outside. Opening the front door, she leaps down the front steps as her cousin takes her bag from the cab driver. 

Pulling her into a giant hug, Sam is elated that Sabrina had come out from Denver to visit for the week. 

“You’re here, you’re here!” Sam squeals in delight.

Sam lets go of Sabrina, still beaming as she picks up her suitcase, following her into the house. 

Sabrina looks around as Sam gives her the abridged tour of the house, pointing out the guest room and where to find clean towels.   

“It’s so cute,” Sabrina comments as they make their way to the kitchen. “Mmm...I brought you a present. Consider it a belated housewarming gift.” Sabrina smiles, pulling a neatly wrapped gift from behind her back, passing it over to Sam.  

Sam takes the present from her cousin, tearing away the ribbon and paper, revealing the familiar black and gold box of her favorite whiskey. 

“You’d better share though.” Sabrina opens a cabinet, pulling out two glasses. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”  

The bungalow’s small backyard had just enough room for a couple of chairs and patio table. Sabrina set the bottle on the table, joining Sam as she sat down. Taking a sip from her glass, Sam relished in the afternoon sunlight and the oaky flavor of the whiskey. 

‘How’s working out here in the boonies?” Sabrina asked as she leaned back in her patio chair, tipping her oversized sunglasses down from the top of her head to cover her face.     

“It’s been busy,” Sam replied flatly.  

She never had perfected how to explain her work to the average person, even to someone who knew her as well as her cousin. Most people didn’t want to hear about dead bodies and criminals, especially while they were on vacation. Sam had missed having Sabrina close by. It was nice to escape her work for a bit, not think about cases or a certain flannel clad detective that seemed to interrupt her thoughts at the most inopportune times.  

Sabrina nodded, noting that Sam seemed to be keeping mum about something. She was usually eager to talk about her job, leaving out any gory details unless prompted. 

“So,” Sabrina began, stealing a quick sip of her own drink. “Any cute cops out here?”  

“Don’t start, Rina.” Sam laughed. “I’ll tell Henry you’ve got a thing for guys in uniform.” 

“What makes you think we haven’t tried that one out already?”  

Sam snorted. Rina had zero filter. It was one of the many things she loved that about her. 

“You know I’ve worked too hard to get to where I am to be checking out anyone at the station.  I can’t just throw myself at some detective because I need to get laid.”

“Detective?” Sabrina questioned, raising an eyebrow. “I asked about cops not detectives which leads me to believe that there  _ is  _ someone.”

Sam rolls her eyes.

“He just stares at my ass when he thinks I’m not looking.”  

“Oh my god, is it your partner?” Sabrina perked up, pulling her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose to look over at Sam.  “Zip?”

“Flip,” Sam corrected a little too quickly. " And I don't know what you're talking about Rina." she tried to recover, her cousin not missing a beat. 

"Uh huh...you keep telling yourself that Samantha."

“You read too many romance novels.” 

“And you're projecting.”  

"I wouldn't call it that per say. I'd say you have that hunk of a detective wrapped around your little finger. Don't play coy. I've known you my whole life...you can't hide that stuff from me."

Sam reaches for the bottle, pouring herself a refill.  

“You know what would happen if I brought  _ that  _ home. Flip’s the kind of guy who you fuck and is gone by morning. Not something for a future.”

Sabrina scoffed, taking the whiskey from Sam, adding more to her own glass. 

"And who put that thought into your head? Aunt Kathryn? God your mom has ridiculous ideas of what men should and shouldn't be. Especially where you're concerned."

“The guy has about three thoughts a day, and two of them are about either tits or ass.  If anything, he’s only staring since I’m the only woman he’s been around for more than five minutes in years.” 

"Your view on the male species is severely skewed. Are you still hung up on the whole Toby thing? Just because he was a total dick doesn't mean all men are."

Sam shifted in her chair, tucking her leg up under her. That was not a subject she wanted to revisit at the moment. Falling silent, she looked down at her glass, studying the melting ice cubes as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world. 

"I’ve heard the way you talk about him Sam," Sabrina chimed in. “Maybe a little office romance wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

“Enough about me and my lackluster love life. How’s Henry’s new job going? I assume you two have been discussing getting a place here together.”

“Denver has been lonely since he transferred to Colorado Springs, but I dunno Sam. You don’t think it might be a bit too impetuous?”

“You’ve been together for over a year, Rina. Frankly I’m surprised he hasn’t popped the question.”

Sabrina chuckles.

“Maybe someday.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are love!
> 
> More to come soon!


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